And Then It all Hits The Fan...
I started this blog back in 11, I think because I missed the mental misadventures of blogging on Myspace, because I had no one to share with other then my mother. That's who this is really about anyway.
So, I was all primed to start writing see, then we got the news that My Mother's cancer had snuck back in, had three years to make its self comfortable, and bring all its nastiness with it. Talk about a one way ticket to FUCK MY LIFE.
Cancer is an evil prick. It pretends to take defeat graciously, and you get a clean bill of health and everyone celebrates and congradulates you on beating the thing back. But its just a game Cancer likes to play. Like a sinister version of hide and seek. Except, no one is seeking because you've already been assured that you beat it, go ahead, go back to your life, come in for check ups, because everything is going to come back bright, clean and shiny.
Yeah Right.
Eveything becomes louder. The ticking of a clock rattles off the minutes, letting you know its only a matter of time, but how much time? The doctor says things can be done to prolong life, but you get the feeling he's lying to you, to her, and you just want to punch him, even though deep down inside you know its not his fault, it's no one's fault. Cancer takes that away from you too.
There is a giant elephant in the room now, and you hate the sight of it. You put on a brave face, and you act like youre OK, and everything is fine, but it isn't fine at all, not by a long shot.
You watch the cancer spread its fingers all over her, your mother, a woman you often nominated for sainthood in your own mind, a woman you have laughed, cried, fought tooth and nail with give in to what is nothing less then certain death. And you have no choice. There are no options left. This is reality. This is what death looks like, and it terrifies you.
Four short months is all it takes. Then one night, you come home, and you hear that death rattle in her chest, and she's fighting it, God Damn, she is fighting it, but you both know its time. And you know she's tired, an now its up to you to make the decisions, its your turn to take care of her.
You sit with her on the bed, and hold hands, and she tells you don't be a pussy, because she made you strong. So you smile, and you promise Her what she wants. Now its time to go.
The morphine does its job, and at quarter to five AM on a cold, dark December morning, its over. She's Gone. You sit in the chair in the corner of the motel room, a room you rented because you cant bear to be in the house you spent 17 good, bad, and ugly years in with the one person who always loved you ,,even when you couldn't love yourself. And you take a pain pill, one's you found in her purse, to try and numb yourself ,because you can feel those tears coming on, and you know they will burn.
The next few days go by in a blur. the phone calls, the arrangements, you hate the phone, you can't even go to a store without someone running into you, trapping you in the corner, telling you how sorry they are for your loss.
They are sorry? Lady, you don't even know! You want to scream, and push, You want to yell at the top of your lungs, "get the fuck away from me!!" But you don't, because your mother raised you better then that, and you never let them see you weak God Dammit.
Your Mother is in a better place now, at least that's what they say. She's in a fucking urn, you asshole, that's what you think, but you never say. They tell you things, you need to bury her, but you don't listen, because its not up to them. So you drag that urn with you all over the place, Keep it near you, Keep Her near you. and you talk to her, Like she is still with you. You get the most painful tattoo of your life, Her name, across your collar bone, and its your most favorite piece of ink, and you find ways to display it. You don't give a shit what people think, She's your mother, and you loved her.
You cycle through the stages of grief, some of them twice. People tell you need to get over it, its been four months, its been six months, but for you, its December 15th, every day over and over again. What do they know? They don't.
Things settle, the best they can, the best you let them. You hit the bottle, you hit the pills, You push good people out, you let assholes in. you work three jobs, you move 8 times. You cycle through the 7 stages of grief over and over again . Go months without incident and you get a wiff of Charlie Blue perfume and lose it in the middle of Walmart.
So, I was all primed to start writing see, then we got the news that My Mother's cancer had snuck back in, had three years to make its self comfortable, and bring all its nastiness with it. Talk about a one way ticket to FUCK MY LIFE.
Cancer is an evil prick. It pretends to take defeat graciously, and you get a clean bill of health and everyone celebrates and congradulates you on beating the thing back. But its just a game Cancer likes to play. Like a sinister version of hide and seek. Except, no one is seeking because you've already been assured that you beat it, go ahead, go back to your life, come in for check ups, because everything is going to come back bright, clean and shiny.
Yeah Right.
Eveything becomes louder. The ticking of a clock rattles off the minutes, letting you know its only a matter of time, but how much time? The doctor says things can be done to prolong life, but you get the feeling he's lying to you, to her, and you just want to punch him, even though deep down inside you know its not his fault, it's no one's fault. Cancer takes that away from you too.
There is a giant elephant in the room now, and you hate the sight of it. You put on a brave face, and you act like youre OK, and everything is fine, but it isn't fine at all, not by a long shot.
You watch the cancer spread its fingers all over her, your mother, a woman you often nominated for sainthood in your own mind, a woman you have laughed, cried, fought tooth and nail with give in to what is nothing less then certain death. And you have no choice. There are no options left. This is reality. This is what death looks like, and it terrifies you.
Four short months is all it takes. Then one night, you come home, and you hear that death rattle in her chest, and she's fighting it, God Damn, she is fighting it, but you both know its time. And you know she's tired, an now its up to you to make the decisions, its your turn to take care of her.
You sit with her on the bed, and hold hands, and she tells you don't be a pussy, because she made you strong. So you smile, and you promise Her what she wants. Now its time to go.
The morphine does its job, and at quarter to five AM on a cold, dark December morning, its over. She's Gone. You sit in the chair in the corner of the motel room, a room you rented because you cant bear to be in the house you spent 17 good, bad, and ugly years in with the one person who always loved you ,,even when you couldn't love yourself. And you take a pain pill, one's you found in her purse, to try and numb yourself ,because you can feel those tears coming on, and you know they will burn.
The next few days go by in a blur. the phone calls, the arrangements, you hate the phone, you can't even go to a store without someone running into you, trapping you in the corner, telling you how sorry they are for your loss.
They are sorry? Lady, you don't even know! You want to scream, and push, You want to yell at the top of your lungs, "get the fuck away from me!!" But you don't, because your mother raised you better then that, and you never let them see you weak God Dammit.
Your Mother is in a better place now, at least that's what they say. She's in a fucking urn, you asshole, that's what you think, but you never say. They tell you things, you need to bury her, but you don't listen, because its not up to them. So you drag that urn with you all over the place, Keep it near you, Keep Her near you. and you talk to her, Like she is still with you. You get the most painful tattoo of your life, Her name, across your collar bone, and its your most favorite piece of ink, and you find ways to display it. You don't give a shit what people think, She's your mother, and you loved her.
You cycle through the stages of grief, some of them twice. People tell you need to get over it, its been four months, its been six months, but for you, its December 15th, every day over and over again. What do they know? They don't.
Things settle, the best they can, the best you let them. You hit the bottle, you hit the pills, You push good people out, you let assholes in. you work three jobs, you move 8 times. You cycle through the 7 stages of grief over and over again . Go months without incident and you get a wiff of Charlie Blue perfume and lose it in the middle of Walmart.
Some days, December 15 feels brand new, others you are taken back that a year passed, the five then 8.
( To be continued)
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